


Recogitare

by lapsedpacifist



Series: Neurodegenerative [1]
Category: Batman (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Bruce Wayne Tries to Be a Good Parent, Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Memory Loss, More Hurt Than Comfort, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:40:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29886090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lapsedpacifist/pseuds/lapsedpacifist
Summary: A stranger shows up in the Batcave, claiming to be one of Bruce’s adopted children and a hero in his own right. Bruce has never seen him before, so why are his other kids calling the intruder ‘Grayson’ and believing that this ‘Nightwing’ really exists?AKA: Bruce forgets Dick.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne
Series: Neurodegenerative [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2197371
Comments: 16
Kudos: 101





	Recogitare

A perfectly successful mission is a rare achievement nowadays, and Bruce often wonders whether he is getting slower or if it is merely the villains that are getting better. And then he spends the next few hours considering which is worse and coming up with contingency plans.

So writing up the necessary after-mission report is quite a pleasure for once. Tim is leaning against the table next to Bruce as he recalls his own trek through the infiltrated compound, with only the rhythmic thumping of Damian’s projectiles hitting their mark interrupting the flow of Tim’s voice.

Bruce knows he could have just asked the boys to do this on their own, to write down everything necessary and send it to him, a far more effective system, but their closeness is a form of reward to him, happy as he is to see their bodies free of any bruises or cuts or even anything worse. Those types of injuries are becoming worryingly common on their missions and he is always beside himself with worry.

But not right now.

No, right now, he’s … relaxed, another rarity for him. But then that has been a rarity for most of his life, nothing new. Still, he finds himself trying to remember when was the last time he took Damian and Duke — and even Tim and Cass, by that line of thinking — out to some ‘father-child’ bonding activities. As nothing too recent pops up, he vows to organise an outing soon. Maybe he can take them to that laser tag arena. They should enjoy it, probably.

It’s then that he hears the footsteps approaching down the steps from the manor, their pattern of movement not one he knows. But Tim is still leaning against the table with the stairs perfectly in his line of sight, and Bruce notices only a brief wave. The kid doesn’t even pause in his recitation otherwise, far from the expected flinch should the approaching person be an actual stranger descending into the cave. 

Nothing to worry about, then, maybe just one of the far too many friends of his kids whose exact footsteps Bruce doesn’t have down pat quite yet (more to study, how great — something to rectify soon).

It’s only when he hears Damian audibly stop in his practice routine, his remaining batarangs clanking as they fall onto the practice mats, that Bruce’s nicely relaxed muscles start to tense again.

Then Damian positively _chirps out:_ “You’re late again, Richard!” and Bruce is immediately turning around, because one, Damian does not chirp, two, as far as Bruce is aware they didn’t have any actual visitors scheduled today and Bruce is aware of most things, and three, Bruce does not know _anyone_ named Richard.

The voice that answers is completely foreign to Bruce. Male, young, Gotham accent, and exactly as upbeat as Damian’s: “I guess that means you get to pick the game.”

The man is indeed young, maybe in his mid-twenties. Caucasian, black hair, blue eyes, conventionally pretty, and wearing loose sports clothing that does not attempt to hide any weaponry. He is tall, maybe slightly above average, and lithe, with defined muscles. Relaxed and not anticipating a fight, or at least a very good actor. Completely at ease in the Batcave, totally unknown to Bruce, and right now grabbing Damian.

Bruce doesn’t even think. He simply vaults over the chair in a gravity defying jump, cursing himself for having abandoned his utility belt as he races to pull the stranger away from his son.

He ignores Tim’s undecipherable yell as he body slams the intruder into the ground and away from Damian. Then he’s looking around for something he can use as restraints, holding the man down with only one hand, the other wanting to reach Damian to check if he is alright.

The situation suddenly _shifts._

The intruder yells out: “What the _fuck, B?”_ and somehow gets Bruce in a lock between his legs and then even _manages to throw him off._

Not that Bruce lets himself fall. Instead he quickly reorients himself in the air, landing on both legs and readying himself for another attack. He only slams to a stop as Damian steps between him and the intruder.

“What was that, Father!?” Damian demands, completely oblivious to how he is leaving his back fully open to the intruder. Bruce glances at Tim, hoping that at least he understands the gravity of the situation and is maybe readying himself to help Bruce, but no. Tim did manage to slip on his own belt and find his staff in the meantime, but he’s pointing it at Bruce in what is a perfect defensive stance.

Bruce still has the intruder firmly in his peripheral vision, and is fully privy to the man’s expression of confusion and shock that take over his face. 

Some sort of mind control, he realises. The intruder is controlling his two kids, but cant’ touch Bruce, and now he would have to fight his own kids and—

He doesn’t know the man and he already hates him with a passion.

“Who are you?” he growls, hoping that the Batman voice effect is no less ruined now that he doesn’t have his cowl on.

“What the hell,” the intruder repeats in a good imitation of a person in shock. “Dami,” the intruder continues, and now he’s even pulling out demeaning nicknames for his son, “did something happen on the mission?”

It’s Tim that answers, still firmly holding his bo staff as a defence against Bruce, and that _hurts,_ but he pushes through to listen: “No, nothing that I’m aware of. And it’s not a practice scenario either, I have no idea—”

The intruder looks at Tim as the kid talks, and Bruce chooses that opportunity to strike. He jumps over the batarangs sent his way by Tim, pushes Damian aside and throws a punch that the intruder backflips away from in a similar gravity-defying stunt.

His kids gone silent, Bruce mostly focuses on the intruder.

He doesn’t give the man any time to rest, following up his attack with a kick, but the intruder seems to be almost anticipating his moves with the way they don’t come even closer to connecting.

Which is definitely worrying.

“Computer,” he rasps out, quickly trying to decide between sending out a distress call or locking the whole thing down. 

The intruder doesn’t let him choose.

“Computer,” the man yells, then immediately continues before Bruce can interject: “Lockdown Level Two, authorisation Nightwing!”

For a brief second Bruce is absolutely sure nothing is going to happen and he is already turning back to the intruder, arm drawn back for another punch, when the computer speaks up: “Authorisation Nightwing recognised. Lockdown Level Three in place.” The ominous clanking of the thick doors that come down over all the exists confirm this, and Bruce can’t believe this is happening. He lashes out and almost catches the intruder’s shoulder, but just like before, the man spins away.

“A second Alpha Level Personal Authorization is necessary to engage Lockdown Level Two,” the computer announces.

“Belay that!” Bruce yells, but now the faster one is Tim: “Authorisation Red Robin for Lockdown Level Two!” the kid yells out, and the lights dim accordingly. 

“Lockdown Level Two in place. All communication suspended. Shields erected. Lights out in five, four—”

Bruce doesn’t have his cowl or his night vision goggles, but he knows the cave well enough to fight in the dark. It should be an advantage, really, so it’s no surprise that the intruder instantly commands: “Automatic light control off, 85% steady lighting.”

The lights brighten in acknowledgment and Bruce is trying not to spit out his anger and worry. Two of his sons are now locked with him and that mind controlling monster, and the situation is rapidly spiralling out of his control.

“Computer, give me executive control over the system,” he tries and fails to catch the intruder yet again, the man still only on defence and not attacking. Thankfully the intruder hasn’t forced his sons to join in — yet, something Bruce is immensely grateful for right up until the computer fails to execute his command and he turns around to see both of them typing away at the terminal, disabling his access.

“No!” he yells, and is then immediately tackled by the intruder. Finally on the offense, the man is exactly as limber and light on his feet as his appearance suggested, but also strong and extremely well trained. 

Bruce — _Bruce_ — is having trouble keeping up.

“We need an override, dick!” Tim yells out, the unnecessary insult tackled on at the end making little sense if they are under mind control, but Bruce is having to use far too much of his attention on the fight itself to properly think about it. “I can try to work around it, but it might take too long and—”

“Maverick,” the intruder offers and Tim wastes no time typing it in. The small amount of hope left in Bruce that thinks ‘surely they can’t have gotten this far’ dies a fiery death as the monitor blinks in acknowledgment, suspending all his authorisations and commands. 

Shit.

He has to finish this and finish it fast, so that he can then restore the power and—

Shit.

He barely dodgers the kick, realising that he really has to focus completely on the attacker in order to stay on his feet. Not that he has really been fighting as hard as possible, but it is time to go all out.

A sudden pinprick in his neck halts his movements as he reaches back to quickly pull out the dart, but a simple look at the projectile tells him it’s too late. It’s the one with increased dosage they use on metas, particularly large opponents, or on people with high immunity.

Even the intruder knows that it’s over and steps away from Bruce. 

The last thing he sees before blacking out is the man’s worried frown.

* * *

He wakes up in restraints, his head hurting in an annoyingly accurate imitation of a hangover but with completely clear memories of the past events that led him to this.

He’s still in the cave and the restraints are familiar ones; the soft, padded ones they use in medical emergencies and are therefore quite escapable — for him. His eyes stay closed and his breathing even, hoping to conceal his alertness from the two people that stand by his bedside.

And yet a familiar voice still announces: “He’s awake.” Probably reading off of his heart monitor.

It’s Tim, and Bruce opens his eyes to find him and Alfred next to him. They both seem concerned but unharmed, and the intruder is nowhere in sight.

“Look,” Tim immediately begins, “I know you can get out of those, but it will you take a bit and during that, you need to listen, alright?”

Bruce doesn’t answer but starts on the restraints, ignoring Alfred’s pointed look. 

“We ran far too many tests on you, and nothing came up, not in your blood or brain or anywhere else.”

This is… worrying. What did they do to him while he was unconscious?

“Tim,” he says, “Tim, please listen to me, you need to—”

“Master Bruce,” Alfred interrupts him, “you were asked to listen so listen you will!”

Mind control or not, Bruce automatically obeys the tone of voice, anxious that the man snagged Alfred too, apparently.

“Was it an exercise or something? We couldn’t find anything in your files, but maybe— why did you attack dick?”

Bruce frowns: “The intruder?”

Tim mirrors his frown, adding puzzlement to the mix: “Intruder? Bruce, that was _dick._ Dick Grayson? Your son? Please tell me you just picked a really, really awful time to grow a sense of humour. It’s really not working”

He has no idea what Tim’s talking about, doesn’t remember anyone by that name in the files or from society events, and lets Tim know that.

Alfred is now even more worried and Tim’s face falls. “You don’t remember him?” he chokes out.

He is almost finished with one of his hands. “Tim, I don’t know what he convinced you or Alfred to think, but none of us have ever met Dick Grayson before.” 

He isn’t completely certain about that; if the intruder was planning this heist or takeover or whatever it was for a while, he probably met his other kids before to establish himself as a known entity. Bruce doesn’t want to think about it.

“You need to fight it,” he whispers to Tim. The kid is strong, the most probable of the three to break the hold the intruder has on them.

But Tim merely laughs his awkward laugh. “No, you’re the one that was mind whammied. Dick is — Dick has been with you for longer than any of us, except for Alfred.”

Bruce recalls the stark emptiness of the manor before Jason, the memories crystal clear in his mind, and shakes his head: “No. something happened to you, something has happened to all of you.”

His other hand is finally free and he surges forward to free his ankles before anyone can stop him, but no one tries.

They even leave the door open so that he can dash past them into the central area of the cave, looking for a communicator and Damian. In any order.

The monitors are all turned on and displaying various training videos and he sees himself up there. Training with Jason, apparently, given Robin's costume.

Except that Jason was never much for acrobatics, has never shown aptitude for such moves, doesn’t like frivolous movement — he has never seen this person before.

The intruder is calmly standing next to the console with Damian in the chair, both of them looking at Bruce.

Bruce has a scalpel, swiped from the medbay, but is otherwise unarmed. Both of them don’t appear to have any weapons either, but he never knows with Damian. And the intruder is far too close to his son.

“I take it you don’t believe Tim?” the intruder asks.

Damian scowls: “I told you Drake wouldn’t be enough! Father, how could you forget your most tolerable acquisition?”

“I see I’ve been upgraded from a ‘charity case’ to an ‘acquisition,” the intruder snorts and _ruffles Damian’s hair._

Instead of disembowelment, Damian only gives the most adorable pout and then playfully — at least for him — pushes the man’s hand away.

Bruce can’t breathe, his trained heart beating a rapid rhythm he knows is associated with fear but refuses to believe it. He isn’t afraid, he is just—

Terrified.

For Damian.

They seem ignorant of the anger that threatens to consume him, that wants to launch at the intruder and tear him apart, and he clenches his fists to keep it contained. Damian is standing too close and he does not dare move.

“What do you want?” he asks instead, his voice as calm as he can make it. “Why are you here?”

He knows the man believes himself in complete control, almost certainly with a surprise up his sleeve and a contingency ready. Letting Bruce freely roam around is the intruder’s — Grayson’s — unsubtle but efficient way of showing off.

Or simple stupidity.

Which Bruce refuses to believe, because Grayson has to be smart to make it here, to surprise Bruce this badly. Not just anyone can do it, and the thought of just any small-time crook waltzing in here sends a shiver down his spine.

Grayson doesn’t answer Bruce’s questions and simply shakes his head: “It’s not like that, B.”

Another demeaning nickname. How surprising.

“Look,” Grayson says and gestures to the monitors. “Training footage. Years and years of it. That’s me, B. Check mission logs — you’ll see I’ve been with you since the start. Hell, check the reports — I’ve probably written about a thousand of those.”

Since the man has shown proclivity for hacking, what with inserting his overrides into the Crays, Bruce is heavily sceptical of any and all ‘proof’ created this way. Faking a video might be hard, but it’s far from impossible. And writing a thousand reports would take a while, but again, far from improbable.

But it’s not Grayson that takes his continuing disbelief to heart. No, the man seems almost satisfied. Instead it’s Damian who stomps his feet and yells: “Why do you continue playing a fool, Father?”

Tim steps past Bruce to join Damian and Grayson at the console, but leaving a healthy distance between himself and Damian.

That’s good, it means they still have some degree of control left. And if he knows his sons, they’re fighting tooth and nail to get free. He needs to give them time and keep reminding them of the truth.

And, he repeats to himself, he absolutely cannot call for help. Grayson has both Tim and Damian under his control, and if he managed to overpower them, then the rest of the League would be easy pickings. 

‘Mind-controlled Superman’ is not a sentence Bruce particularly likes to hear.

So instead he stalls for time.

“I’m sorry, Damian, but you must admit just how ridiculous this all sounds. A stranger waltzing up to you and telling you that you have known him for decades? Everyone else agreeing with him?”

“But he isn’t a stranger,” Damian insists, oddly upset. “It’s Richard!”

“Dami,” Grayson rather softly chides him, “it’s fine.”

“It’s distressing you,” Damian mutters back. 

The man is still relaxed as far as Bruce can tell, and definitely a superb actor.

“Look,” Grayson, Richard, says, “I know you’re not going to trust anything we show or tell you, so what if you just ask someone yourself?”

And he finally moves away from the console, but Damian trots after him, still too close. The man offers Bruce an unnervingly normal looking phone, one that looks like it was grabbed from the stash of burner phones they keep around. Probably bugged, definitely suspicious, and his only option.

He snatches it out of Grayson’s hand. A superficial check doesn’t reveal anything, not that he expected it too. He even cracks it open, but nothing seems amiss.

Grayson isn’t looking at him anymore, rather chatting with Tim, and Bruce could summon the entire League down on their heads.

He doesn’t. 

Instead he enters a number he would rather change into a literal bat than admit to memorising, presses ‘call’ and hopes for the best.

“Hello,” answers a groggy voice a couple of rings later, “Whatcha—”

Hal Jordan has just arrived from a lengthy deep space mission, the last person one would think of when considering Bruce’s ‘friends’, and the man with the strongest willpower Bruce knows (another thing he will never admit).

“Jordan,” he quickly says before the man can continue with his stupid hello’s, “It’s me.”

“It’s almost two fucking am, you bastard, so who do you think you—”

“Jordan!” he barks with just the right amount of growl in his voice and the man splutters.

“Holy shit, it’s you, spooky!”

Well, it certainly sounds and behaves like Jordan.

“What’s your postcode?” he asks.

There’s silence on the other end. Then: “Did you really just wake me up to ask—”

“Focus, idiot, it’s obviously important.”

“Uh, it’s, um, nine, um, zero, and, um, three?”

It is Jordan.

“Nevermind,” he snaps, before the man can trail further off the track. Now, he has to be careful here. He doesn’t want to arouse too much suspicion too quickly. “How well do you know Grayson?”

“Holy shit, are we really talking about this again? Spooks, this is not even overprotective, this is straight up— look, how many times do I have to tell you; it was just one comment and I wasn’t talking about him anyway! And despite you hating fun I _know_ you know what roleplay is, partially because you literally engage in it every single fucking night, you furry fuck, but mostly because I know it was you who put together that fucking memo that I had to read, curtesy of Barry, fuck you. So no, I wasn’t talking about your son when I said _that_ about Nightwing, it was a general—”

Bruce tunes out the rest of the rant and tries to remember ever talking to Jordan about any of those things. A League memo mentioning roleplay? Nothing rings a bell.

“But when is the last time you’ve seen him?”

Jordan pauses for a moment: “Probably right before I left, when the Titans helped us bust that group building the illegal supercollider, I think? Is he alright? Is he missing?” And the man actually sounds worried as he offers to help: “I just got back, but I can—”

“That’s unnecessary. I have never needed and will never need help. Goodbye.”

He unceremoniously ends the call while beginning a countdown in his head. It will take a while for Jordan to fall asleep, wake, and go visit Barry Allen. The first part is done and he hopes — because he cannot simply trust, which irritates him to no end — that everyone plays their part exactly as planned.

Grayson doesn’t ask for the phone, so Bruce pockets it and ventures back to the medbay in search for Alfred.

Who isn’t there.

The sight of the beds reminds him that he is still exhausted from the days of preparation and then the mission itself and that he should probably rest, but he is in a hostile environment and he cannot.

It’s not just him.

He cannot fail them again, not with his memories of Damian’s little corpse still far too vivid in his mind.

He will not just leave his sons alone with Grayson, even though the man’s story sounds slightly likelier now.

Or maybe— or probably, Grayson’s getting to him.

* * *

With the lifted lockdown they can now leave the cave. And they are basically forced to, with Alfred insisting that he isn’t seeing them dine in the dark again.

Bruce is sick with a beyond unpleasant mix of worry, disgust, and rage as he watches Damian and Tim interact with Grayson like there is nothing suspicious about him, nothing amiss about this intruder. They are even more familiar with him than with Bruce himself, their gentleness a stark contrast to how Bruce approaches his interactions with his children. 

Grayson of course notices Bruce’s reluctance to sit down with them for dinner, and offers to leave.

Bruce wants to pretend like he doesn’t see how Damian’s grip on Grayson’s sweater tightens or how Tim hides his eyes behind his bangs. He doesn’t want to let Grayson out of his sight, so he sighs.

“No, stay here,” he says, and sits down.

The unpleasant silence lasts for a good minute before Tim breaks it: “Look, I’ve got a couple of ideas about what we can do next. We can maybe borrow the Lasso of Truth, or Bruce can throw together a truth serum, or we can invite a trusted telepath—”

He stops when Alfred enters with the dish, his eyes immediately innocently setting on Damian. “That’s fascinating,” he says, trying to pretend like he wasn’t just breaking the ‘no shop talk’ rule. Alfred still gives him a knowing look and sets the food on the table, uncovering it with a flourish.

Grayson leans forward, peeking into the bowl. “Mulligatawny soup,” he says, and Bruce is sure he doesn’t tense or give himself away otherwise, but the man still peaks up at Alfred and asks in a pouty voice: “Alfie, _Bruce_ forgot _me_ and you make his favourite food?”

The pout is definitely a fake, and yet Alfred still smiles: “It appears I’ll have to throw the Cremeschnitten I have prepared specifically for you away, then?”

Bruce tries to focus on what’s happening and trying not to panic too obviously that Grayson knows his favourite food. It isn’t a big secret, but it also isn’t written down in any records. The only one that does know about it is Alfred, but why would Grayson ask him about Bruce’s favourite food?

The other, far worse alternative, is that the man can read minds and is reading Bruce’s, and is simply unable to influence him. Or even worse, that he can and isn’t doing it for some other purpose. What purpose that can be escapes Bruce, but he is sure it’s something awful.

He cannot bring himself to even empty his plate, his stomach too sick and his hands threatening to tremble. Despite his decision not to leave his kids alone with Grayson, he leaves the room halfway through, escaping Alfred’s disapproving glances and locking himself into his study.

He pauses there and takes a deep breath. Nobody comes knocking on the door, so he collapses into the chair behind his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

This is beyond bad. 

His gaze slowly moves away from the door and over the walls, seeking something to focus on.

Their family photo is proudly displayed above one of his fake diplomas, and he shoots up from the chair. The photos! It takes him two steps and he takes it off the wall none too gently, realising it’s the one they took right after Duke’s arrival.

They’re smiling in it, most of them somehow managing to be looking into the camera. Damian is politely neutral, Tim and Cass standing on both his sides, Bruce’s hands proudly on Duke’s shoulders and —

That’s Grayson, standing on the other side of Bruce. One of his hands is around Bruce’s waist, the other hanging next to him. He has a wide smile on his face.

Bruce remembers that day well, remembers them taking the picture and the commotion it caused, and he is absolutely certain they were there alone.

He hastily looks over the other pictures, but they are all like that. 

Well, not all of them, but Grayson appears in them more often than not. If there are any group shots, he’s almost always in them, often close to the middle with others clearly reacting to his presence there.

Bruce unlocks the door and steps out, looking at the hallway walls and dreading what he knows he is about to find.

Grayson is everywhere. There are many pictures of him with a single sibling or two, but also many of him alone, sometimes proudly holding up an achievement of his and sometimes caught in a moment. And they don’t appear to be recent either, with the man in question a young kid in some. A young kid, with a younger Bruce and Alfred besides him.

He frowns at that one; he’s smiling in the photo, a young child with the same bright eyes as Grayson riding on his shoulders and Alfred carrying a small bag with him. They are all smiling, even Bruce, and he can’t remember when he last smiled like that.

He takes the photo off the wall, only partially to check for discoloration of the wall behind it. It’s there, in the exact shape of the frame.

The photo goes with him as he jogs to his bedroom. 

This attack becomes more elaborate each second he spends thinking about it.

There’s a box buried somewhere deep within his closet. He’s sure none of the kids know about it; Alfred is probably aware of its existence, but not about its contents, and Bruce prefers it that way.

He doesn’t even close his doors fully in the rush he’s in. The box is exactly where it is supposed to be, the combination lock undisturbed and the fingerprint scanner unused. He gets it open in a matter of seconds and then — stops.

Breathes.

And starts taking out its contents as gently as possible.

Damian’s first painting of the manor, Jason’s grade transcripts, Duke’s prize-winning essay on fantasy worldbuilding, Cass’ first Father’s day card, Tim’s blueprints of a real hoverboard.

They’re all still there, and—

There’s a paper clipping, no, a number of paper clippings bound to a couple of pages that look like they were ripped out of a notebook.

He straightens the first clipping. The title happily proclaims a win for the Gotham Academy robot building team in some sort of competition, and offers a picture of the happy winners. It even identifies them, but Bruce doesn't need to check the text to see that one of them is the young Grayson. He flips through the other news, all of them celebrating some achievement or other, all of them Grayson’s.

The pages are a short essay, titled ‘When I Grow Up I Want to Be…’ and written by one Dick Grayson, fourth grade. The handwriting is messy like one may expect from a child, and Bruce isn’t even shocked anymore when he finds an encouraging comment in his own handwriting and his distinct signature under the teacher’s corrections.

He doesn’t know what to think, for a moment.

Then he wants to tear the paper apart, furious that someone _dared_ to venture into his sacred space and—

But he stops himself. 

Because there’s doubt in him now.

What if this is real? What if, what if he has somehow _forgotten_ his own son?

But that is ridiculous, is it not?

* * *

“Bruce?” a voice calls from the hallway.

Bruce finds himself staring at the box in front of him, but seeing nothing. He shakes his head and quickly packs it up again. 

It’s Grayson, outside.

The man is waiting for him in the hallway, nobody else in sight, and Bruce squashes down the brief feeling of panic at the absence of his sons.

It doesn’t have to mean anything.

Grayson seems relaxed enough.

“Hey,” he says.

Bruce only nods.

“So I know you still don’t trust me, and with a good reason,” the man begins, “so I would— well, what can I do to prove myself to you?” he asks.

Bruce almost snorts in disbelief, but doesn’t, because he’s a dignified human being. 

“Leave,” he simply says, and watches Grayson’s face fall.

The man quickly recovers: “I want to help you remember me, not— well. I suppose it is strange having a stranger in your home, especially someone that you don’t remember inviting in, huh?”

Bruce wants to point out that it’s well past ‘strange’, but the man is already walking away, still speaking like he expects Bruce to follow him.

“Actually, I have an idea,” he says, and stops in front of a door not too far away from Bruce’s. “Do you know what’s in here?”

The door is right at the beginning of the hallway that houses his and his other children’s rooms.

He shrugs: “Empty, I think.”

“Really,” Grayson says, “and why would you leave this particular room empty and have Duke live all the way over there,” and he gestures at the east wing, “instead of in here?”

Bruce frowns. That is a good question. He needs to talk to Alfred; maybe Duke had a preference when choosing? He voices that thought.

Grayson rolls his eyes. “Or maybe it was already occupied,” he says and opens the door.

The sheets are pure white, just like everywhere else on Alfred’s insistence, but one of the throw pillows has a Superman symbol on it. The shelves are full of trophies, mechanical… things and action figurines. The bookcase seems to contain mostly comics and some school books, with a couple of CDs to boot. Around the walls are scattered different photos, most of them containing Grayson and a number of other people, some of them who he recognises as fellow heroes. Even Clark is on there, as well as Diana and Barry. 

“Most of my things are in Blüdhaven,” the man says, his eyes filled with something undecipherable as he looks around the room. “Especially my posters. But a lot is still left.”

It looks personalised and lived in, exactly like something he expects to see when he steps into Tim’s or Duke’s rooms, and he is certain this was not here yesterday.

Just how far is this man willing to go to convince him?

This did pose an important point, however, which is the question of just what will it take to convince Bruce.

He is sure that there is nothing they can show or tell him that will make him believe Grayson. His mind _is_ greatest asset, of course closely followed by the, well, ridiculous amount of money and—

Fuck.

How did he not see it earlier?

This is all about _the money,_ because of course it is. Sure, uncovering his secret identity is a step further than most con artists take, but that doesn’t matter.

Bruce is sure he just uncovered what Grayson is after.

The amount of money left behind in the event — heh, like it doesn’t almost happen every other night — of his death is ridiculous, even divided between six. And pretending to be another one of his sons is a sure-fire way to be included in that wealth division.

“I don’t know why I expected this to jog your memories,” Grayson says, hopefully oblivious to Bruce’s internal monologue. He sounds rather defeated: “Alright, I guess we’ll get some experts here to take a look at you. Blood, Leslie, J’onn — or Lilith, but I think you wouldn’t want it to be Lilith—”

“No,” Bruce stops Grayson from leaving with a rather harsh grip on the man’s forearm, but he couldn’t care less for the man’s flinch: “Nobody else. I don’t know _what_ you did to Alfred, Damian, Tim, and even Hal, but you’re not doing it to anyone else.”

Grayson rips his arm away from Bruce in a surprising show of strength. “You don’t tell me what to do anymore,” he hisses back. “But I guess you forgot that too.”

The vehemence is surprising; a sudden break in the man’s infuriatingly tight emotional control that is nevertheless gone as fast as it appears. 

The man straightens his shirt. “This is serious,” he says. “You can’t go out like this, what else have you forgotten?”

“I am perfectly fine,” Bruce grinds out, incredulous that he is _justifying_ himself to this— this intruder. “And you’re not calling anyone,” he adds.

Grayson quickly moves further away before Bruce can grab him again, tilting his head to the side: “Probably not,” he admits, “Damian and Tim already took care of that.”

* * *

He leaves Grayson alone in the hallway, but instead of running into the cave, makes his way back to his study.

The computer in there can connect to the Crays, and he wants to see what his systems say about Grayson.

They say a lot, he soon finds out.

There’s hundreds upon hundreds of files bearing reference to Grayson, either as Robin or Nightwing, or even worse, as _Batman._ It’s too much to even attempt to skim, so he instead focuses on the current information. Grayson’s profile is extensive, but the information he’s looking for is easily attainable. 

A New York address and a reference to a job at a museum, neither a picture of comfortable luxury any child —- or even a close family friend — of his would normally be expected to enjoy. Bruce cannot imagine himself not wanting something better for his son, cannot imagine himself _allowing_ his own child to go without the necessary funds. 

He wonders why Grayson didn’t come up with a better, more believable cover. Everything up until this moment more than showed just how well Grayson knows Bruce, only to make such a big misjudgement?

Maybe the man never expected Bruce to investigate— no, that isn’t possible, Grayson knows too much to simply miss something so obvious.

A clear contradiction that Bruce can’t understand just yet but also does not have time to investigate in depth, at least not according to the monitors showing him the new arrivals in the cave.

* * *

It’s even worse than he feared. Both Wonder Woman and Troia are standing there, next to Flash and Zatanna. 

He ignores the twinge that is disappointed at the obvious lack of Green Lantern.

Grayson is still wearing only his loose clothing, but Tim and Damian are suited up and armed. Bruce is also carrying his emergency belt underneath his jacket, but hopes he won’t have to use it.

“I didn’t invite you here,” he growls instead of trying to warn the Leaguers and Troia. It’s obviously already too late, if the way Grayson is easily chatting with Troia as the other three comfortably stand around is of any indication. “I asked you to stay away,” he adds, a pointed look at Barry who pretends not to notice it or at least not understand.

It’s Diana who speaks. “No,” she says, “but if what your children allege is true, then it is also clear that you are exhibiting a lack of judgement unusual for you.”

“Allege,” Damian spits out like it is some grievous insult, “do you not believe our words, Amazon?!”

Grayson is pulling the kid back before he can translate his threats into actions, literally pulling Damian’s hands away from his sword and almost setting off Bruce again, who is dismayed to realise that just seeing that man _touch_ his kids is enough to break his ironclad control. Or control he assumed to be ironclad, but is instead of some far inferior material.

It is perhaps this anger that makes his retort slightly more confrontational than intended: “Incorrect, I made a perfectly logical decision on the basis of my vast experience; you’re the ones that failed to consider the implications of leaguers falling under mind control.”

Diana takes Damian’s anger in stride, but Bruce’s comment elicits a response from her. “Mind control?” she says. “You are serious about this. Then it _is_ true.”

“Did you think we were joking?” Tim sounds vaguely hurt.

“No, she just thought Bruce might be trying one of his three hundred and forty eight training scenarios on us without prior warning,” Grayson explains.

Bruce does not have three hundred and forty eight training scenarios, so at least that’s something that Grayson does not know. But the general premise is sound and definitely something Bruce would and has done already.

“This is no exercise,” he uselessly says. He’s been inching towards one of the emergency shutdown panels for the cave, but he can see that Grayson knows what he’s doing.

Zatanna, who was mumbling something underneath her breath the whole time, finally speaks up: “And neither does it appear to be a simple medical issue. Bruce, something serious has happened to you. It feels slightly magical in origin. Just let me check—”

“No!” he yells, moving away from her outstretched hand, right against the panel.

This one is all about brute force, his fist denting the metal and setting off the emergency shutdown procedure.

Or at least it is supposed to, and Bruce is disappointed but not too surprised to see nothing happen. His shock is far less than it ought to be in normal circumstances as he begins to accept Grayson’s omniscience when it comes to his secrets.

Coupled with his powers, this is truly one of the worst case scenarios, but Bruce has come back from worse and he isn’t about to quit now, not with Damian, Tim and Alfred in direct danger and the rest of the family probably under threat as well.

Not that any of them so much as twitched at his sudden move. Sure, Flash and Zatanna jumped and took a step back, but Troia just crossed her arms. In contrast, Damian seems vaguely annoyed by his action and Tim… content? Something is passed from Damian to Tim, and Bruce reads his lips to see what the kid is talking about: ‘I told you he would go for it. Face it, demon, I’ve known him—”

He is interrupted by Grayson actually _striking_ the poor kid and Bruce’s rage, held oh-so-precariously back, nearly makes him vault at the man. But Grayson’s hand threateningly remains on the back of Tim’s neck and Bruce forcibly calms himself.

His momentary lapse doesn’t go unnoticed. Troia’s own hands are hovering over her weapons and Flash is vibrating in place. It is only when Wonder Woman speaks that the threat of battle is, for a time, averted. “Bruce, just listen to us for once. I know you would rather think that we are all being mind-controlled before admitting to yourself that maybe, just maybe, it is _your_ mind that is confused for once, but don’t you always want to consider _all_ possibilities?”

There might be some truth in what Diana is saying, but she is indeed also correct about her assessment of when Bruce would dare admit such a thing. Besides, there’s a lot more on the line that just his ego — which is on its own a ridiculous idea, he doesn’t disregard others’ opinions because they are inferior to his, he disregards them because they clearly aren’t as carefully constructed as his or are based on a faulty premise or misleading data.

It’s Zatanna that now pops up again. She actually goes so far as to grab the Lasso of Truth, still attached to Diana’s waist, before finally speaking: “Bruce, you _have_ to listen. There is something strange going on. I said it was magical, but it is far stranger than magic I’m familiar with. You cannot investigate this alone. You have come to me for help before, so are you seriously going to start doubting me now?”

The lasso is gently glittering all through Zatanna’s short speech. Bruce knows the lasso’s effects both from his own experience touching it as well as watching others be interrogated with it. He doesn’t say anything and Zatanna only briefly entertains a forlorn expression before it morphs into anger and a twinge of hurt.

She obviously thought she could get through to him and she failed. He wonders if Grayson had more of the same in store and he prepares for an appeal to friendship from Barry or something, but it is Donna instead who speaks up: “Useless! He is as paranoid as always. I would try out my own lasso, but I already know it would be pointless; he can outstubborn a mule.”

Despite her words her hand still reaches for her silver lasso, but Grayson intercepts it and bats it away: “No need, I think we can manage this without violence, hm?”

The bastard is still standing right behind Tim, keeping the kid as a meatshield between him and Bruce.

“So let’s just— let us both hold the lasso and you can interrogate me as much as you want,” Grayson offers with a deceptively warm smile, something one might use on a frightened animal in a corner.

And just like one, Bruce bares his teeth: “You want to tie me up? Can you be any more blatantly—”

Tim actually rolls his eyes and Damian seems even more annoyed, but Bruce doesn’t want to begin guessing why.

Grayson steps forward as soon as Bruce starts speaking and wordlessly offers Diana his hands. She is far gentler with him than Bruce remembers her ever being when using her lasso like this and he finds a new source for his anger; just how depraved Grayson really is to make everyone behave so unnaturally for them. Even Tim and Damian are now peacefully standing together, looking exactly like two normal brothers to anyone who doesn’t know them.

With his hands wrapped, he turns towards Bruce and says “Now we’re both going to be tied up,” like _Grayson_ making any unexpected moves is what scares Bruce so much. With Diana here it would take one measly command to see everyone dead on the floor if Grayson so desires. 

And yet he has no alternatives. He knows neither what Grayson is planning with his offer nor what his end plan is, if the money is indeed the endgame Bruce imagines it to be.

He grabs the lasso, unwilling to bind his hands. It shines underneath his grip and he tries an obvious lie: “My name is… Bruce Thomas Wayne.” Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t work and the truth comes out, so he goes with something more subtle: “Alfred l— li— _hates_ The Clash.”

There’s a snort from Tim and a curious frown from Damian. Grayson is also sporting a small smile as Bruce focuses on his face.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“Richard John Grayson,” Grayson says, completely calm, then adds: “your first adopted son.”

Donna is nodding behind him and neither Zatanna nor Barry look surprised by the answer. Diana is calmly holding the end of the lasso. This is not news to them.

“What are you doing here? At Wayne Manor?” he quickly elaborates.

“I often come here to visit my siblings. Right now I am attempting to solve your memory problem.”

“What are you planning on doing, then?”

“Solving your memory problem.”

Bruce grabs the lasso tighter, as if that could somehow squeeze the real truth out of Grayson.

If only it worked like that.

“What are you planning with my kids?” he growls.

Grayson doesn’t seem threatened by Batman’s partial appearance. “I was thinking of taking Damian to see the photography exhibition that he’s been talking about nonstop for the past week. And then I have to finish _Neverwhere_ because I lied to Duke about it being my favourite fantasy novel.”

Bruce is, unsurprisingly, right again. Even his kids not currently here are in danger.

His patience is running thin at this point. “What did you do to me?” he asks outright. “What did you do to Tim and Damian?”

“If you’re talking about what I’ve done since arriving here today, nothing. I don’t have superpowers. I can’t mind control anyone.”

“No matter how much he wishes he could,” Donna mutters under her breath and Grayson’s lip twitches upwards. 

Bruce doesn’t fall for it. “I have never seen you before in my life.”

Grayson is a phenomenal actor; the hurt on his face almost seems real. His expressive mouth downturns as he shakes his head: “You’ve known me for more than fifteen years.”

“I don’t know you!” he yells slightly louder than it is called for, but he cannot find it in himself to care. “You have been lying to me the whole day and I just wish you would finally tell me what you’re planning to do to my family!”

The man yells back: “I _am_ your family!”

How dare he!

“You are _not_ my family,” he growls, revelling in how Grayson finally flinches away from him. Tim and Damian are watching them with wide eyes and slight fear, and he hates himself for putting that expression on their faces, but he hates Grayson even more.

And despite that flinch, despite what look like clever and quite convincing tears, Grayson doesn’t relent. He also grips the lasso tighter and steps even closer: “Really. Really, Bruce. Then tell me what that old, _well-used_ trapeze equipment is doing down there by the practice mats. It’s not really conducive to crime fighting and you are well past the point of using it casually, so who trains on it? No one? Then why is it so well-placed in the cave; why do you know every inch of this cave and know it that it is right and yet the trapeze set lies right in the middle of it?”

Bruce hasn’t really noticed the equipment before, his previous visit to the cave too short and traumatic. And yet even as he looks at it nothing seems out of place; everything is exactly where it should be, just like Grayson said, and still he can’t remember why on earth he thought he ever needed a trapeze set. 

The doubts begin encroaching on his mind again but he refuses to play that game. 

“No,” he says, “that doesn’t matter. I want to—”

“It matters!” Grayson interrupts. “It matters! Alright then, why do you call this the Batcave?”

Such an innocuous little question and yet Bruce cannot remember the answer. “Jason named it,” he says, a silent _probably_ left out. He is fairly sure of it, enough that the lasso allows him to say so. It does sound like something the old Jason might have done.

“Sure, and the birdarangs too? Alright, something easier: Why do you hate Hudson University?”

That’s a ridiculous question and Bruce almost says that, but the lasso stops him. Because, he realises, he _does_ hate Hudson U for some vague, unspecified reason — as if they did something awful to him and he doesn’t even know it.

“I don’t know,” he admits, and Grayson immediately continues: “Who founded the Teen Titans?”

This, he knows. “Kid Flash, Speedy, Aqualad, and Wonder Girl.” He even looks at Donna at some point.

“So why have they always been led by a Robin?”

That’s also a stupid question, Robin is just— just—

“Why do you know so much about elephants?”

That question comes right out of the blue and he frowns. He knows a lot about most animals, mostly for his crime-fighting purpose, so elephants shouldn’t be anything special. 

And yet as he tries to think about them, he realises that he does know far too much about them. Why did he ever learn—

“Since when can the Batmobile fly?” Grayson asks next.

Ah, an easy answer; “Ever since Damian and—” he pauses. He knows _he_ didn’t work on it, but Damian alone couldn’t have done it. Maybe Lucius helped him? Tim? _Alfred?_

He can’t say it, not with the lasso.

Grayson takes his silence as a prompt to continue: “Something easier then. Who was Batman when you weren’t around?”

“Jean-Paul Valley,” Bruce immediately says.

“Both times, really.”

“Ye—”

He can’t say it. Because after Jean-Paul’s horrible tenure as Batman Bruce swore he would rather see Batman dead than that maniac in the costume again. And besides, when he was gone it was— Tim? No, he became Red Robin, didn’t he? Jason was… Jason was too unstable back then and Damian had… Damian just arrived, didn’t he? And then the kid was accepted by—

He doesn’t know.

He can feel the blank in his mind and it is terrifying.

A piece of his memories, a piece of his _mind_ is missing, and he has a very very bad feeling it isn’t the only one.

Grayson doesn’t even let him sulk in peace: “Who gave Damian Robin?”

He wants to say it was him, that he made a good decision, but he _knows_ it wasn’t. He stays silent, but internally, he is screaming at himself. Why? Why doesn’t he know it?

“Why did you make anyone Robin, B? Did Jason come up with the name? The suit? You? Who came up with Robin, B?”

And he can’t—

It’s blank. There’s nothing there. He has to admit that it doesn’t make sense. It wasn’t Jason’s idea and it sure as hell wasn’t Bruce’s, not those bright colours and the shortpants. Oh, the short pants that Jason constantly complained about during winter. Why Robin? Why not Batboy, or Red Bat or any other bird, for that matter? Why Robin? It’s still blank and he cannot remember.

His mind is—

His mind is missing pieces. Big pieces. If he was prone to joking, he would compare it to Swiss cheese, but he isn’t the punmaster in this relationship.

No, the one cracking jokes constantly is—

It’s definitely not Damian. Or Tim.

But there is supposed to be _someone._

Why Robin?

He stares at the man in front of him and thinks back to his file on Grayson, to the ‘circus family’ mention, to the ‘aerialist’ description, to the trapeze set, to the wide grin on the young child’s face.

Why Robin?

He closes his eyes for a moment.

Why Robin?

Opens them.

“There is something strange going on,” he says, the lasso allowing the truth to come out, “and I don’t believe it’s your fault, Richard.”


End file.
